


It's been a long time coming

by pleadwithmeshoutscream



Series: Across the universe [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Dark Harry, Death, Deathfic, Eleanor Is A Beard, Elounor, Epiphanies, Experimental Style, F/M, God - Freeform, Harry-centric, If you only read one work by me, Implied Eleanor Calder/Louis Tomlinson, Larry Stylinson Is Real, M/M, Modest Management (One Direction), One Shot, One-Sided Relationship, Sad Ending, Sad Harry, Self-Destruction, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicide, larry stylinson - Freeform, lost chances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2015-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-09 14:25:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pleadwithmeshoutscream/pseuds/pleadwithmeshoutscream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>.........................<br/>The thing is.. Harry thinks it’s funny.<br/>What is? The irony.. he reckons.</p><p>or the one where Louis is really<br/>in love with Eleanor & we got it<br/>wrong but also not really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Harry's coming to terms

**Author's Note:**

> Just really needed to get this out of my system. Haven't slept a wink.  
> I've got painting class in less than 4 hours. Fck.  
>   
> Anyway.. this is my 1st published fic.  
> Comments.. comments. My kingdom for some comments.  
>   
> [ It's edited now. 9th April 2015.  
>   
> I feel like I can judge my writing properly as a whole other person  
> If I re-wrote it after having not thought about it for 2 years. So.. there. ]  
>   
> Seriously though. I live for comments.  
> If you've left them and gave me kudos, thank you. Love you .x  
> If you've ever felt this way or need somebody to talk to.. I'm always here.  
> Don't let yourself disappear.  
>   
>   
> Theme song(s)  
> James Vincent McMorrow's If I had a boat  
> Creep by Daniels Andrade

 

> .........................

The thing is.. Harry thinks it’s funny.

What is? The irony.. he reckons.

 

“You know Harry I don’t get it. You’re so _quirky_. You constantly hint at innuendos, you make penis jokes, go to gay clubs, hang out with a lot of older men, have no sense of personal space **and** [pause] you hang out with _Grimshaw_ ," Louis spits out the radio disc jockey's name like a lump of bile wedged between his throat.

"Heck, everyone already thinks you're- are you? Like proper bisexual? Never mi- the point is.. that you don't care though. You don’t try to correct them. You never deny any of their speculations and I really don’t fucking get how whenever people talk about this Larry Stylinson bullshit I am 98% the gay one with the “beard” and you’re just the guy that swings both ways," the 21 year old, a picture of maniacal incredulousness.

There's a pungent odour lingering in the room. Harry can almost taste his dinner travelling back up his throat. He eyes the window; wonders if it'll be rude to just get up and walk over there to let some oxygen in. Fuck. Who knew air fresheners could be so nauseating? He had always made it a point to avoid the perfume department during shopping trips.

"Why do I have to be the bloody gay one eh? And where do they get off threatening me own _mum_ about me sexuality? Mine! Why the bloody hell can’t they just leave El alone? I don’t even know how she puts up with this rubbish because had it been me, I’d have walked out on me ages ago."

Louis' pacing the room. Back and forth, back and forth. _Everything Louis_ resonates loud in the silence of the room. Harry's migraine is giving him hell and the lad's fleeting movements sure aren't helping things. He's got his head pressed against the tip of his fingers, massaging his temple. His other hand fidgeting with the loose thread of the embroidery sewn to the hotel bedspread; the silk patterns cool under the pads of his fingers.

“I mean- they talk like they know me. Don’t they think that maybe of _all people, I_ would know who _I_ fancy and who I don’t? So fucking sick of this. They just keep _insisting_! Pushing and shoving my ‘flamboyance’ in my face and telling me that I’m not me; telling me that I am this and I feel that. I can’t even say anything on twi'er anymore. It’s not like they're gonna take my word for it now would they? Tell me Harry. Why _won’t_ they take my word for it?"

Harry shrugs his shoulders wordlessly, squinting his eyes. Is it just him or is this room too blindingly bright? The yellow lamp sitting on the bedside table is making him restless and uncomfortable.

"If they were truly our supporters they'd believe me. Back then we were just fooling around yeah? It was fun and cheeky banter, sure.. but for Pete's sake! Do I really have to explain and justify my feelings for the people I' seeing? Do I have to provide details and evidence for when I'm with her when I just fucking want to be? Why don't they get that they're blowing things out of proportion? Every bloody time I write something on twitter they say pompous bullshit like ‘I see you management’ or ‘you can’t fool us’. I mean seriously? What the fuck is with that yeah?

“Bollocks you lot! The nerve! Making me feel so bloody paranoid every time we have a fan meet. I can’t make out which ones are bloody delusional and which ones aren’t. You remember that one time one of 'em said something about knowing how we feel and that they _understand_  [gestures inverted commas with his fingers] our situation? That they feel sorry for us and they will support us no matter what and that we should come out sooner or later?

"Well fuck. Tell me Harry, why in God's name do I have to come out? Come out of fucking what? I am not even _in_ anything. **I’m very much out the door and in the bloody sunshine thank you very much, sweetheart**!

Harry winces at Louis' sudden rise in pitch. He really doesn't want to be here. Inwardly he wishes the bed would swallow him whole like that scene from Jumanji with the floor because that'd be way better than having to sit here and feel..  _whatever- 's not important. It's just- it feels less like he's complaining about the fans and more like.. him reprimanding Harry. Like there's an underlying key of confrontation. And Harry's just- he's really knackered. At the brink of emotional exhaustion more like._

“Coming out. Ha! Fucking brilliant, that. Why the hell do I have to play the bloody villain when I’m defending me own girlfriend? And my mother! They sure know how to make a lad feel helpless and pathetic sometimes. Want to do my fucking head in or smash it against a brick wall. These people take every minuscule, finite and insignificant gesture and turn it into something it’s not.

" _Oh the heart eyes! The way Loueh looks at Harreh! Those loving gazes. He loves him so much! "Heart", "heart", indie gay rom-com fairy-tale type **bullshit**. Cue the romantic background music. Shame they have to stay in the closet though. Fuck management! _ I can’t take this anymore Haz! They’re _insane_ I tell you!

"Ngrhh! Feels like I’ve been showcased in some museum display surrounded by lunatics standing nose-pressed to the glass and getting right in my face juzt gawking at me. I can almost literally feel their crazy eyes burning my skincells! It's like I'm some sort of organism sample for them to stare at under a microscope. They're sucking all the oxygen out of my lungs Haz and I'm suffocating! I can't breathe! I just wish they’d at least leave the people I care about of it.

The young lad presses his lips into a thin line and bites down. He can actually feel the weight of his eye bags. He hasn't been getting enough sleep. Couldn't. It's a kind of tired resting won't be able to fix. Eyebrows scrunched up, he keeps his gaze on the swirls of thread and where it appears and disappears into linen patchwork on the underside of the covers that peek out at him. He's avoiding looking at Louis for fear of seeing his expression and having his stomach be weighed down into his ocean-like anxiety by this emotionally manifested anchor.

He doesn’t know what to say to everything really. Technically it involves him. Technically he wishes it didn't. At least not right at this moment. And he cannot help but feel largely to blame for all of this. So what _does_ one say should one find oneself in this kind of situation? He sure as hell can't think of anything so all he does is nod.

“These people are just so **thick**. Getting carried away by their blatantly consistent, insistent **and** _persistent_ accusations and I just.. wish they’d stop coming up with all these far-fetched ideas you know? It’s getting ridiculous. All these conspiracy theories fueled by their wild and wickedly imaginative theories.

"Wait till I prove them wrong.I'll gladly shove it in their faces then. Fuckin' hell." He pulls on his hair in frustration and grits his teeth.  
  
"It's just- it's not like I've got anything against homosexuals and you _know_ that. It was a jolly good fun up until it wasn't so enough is enough already! Hannah never got anything too terrible. And I just- the things they _say_ Harry. God.. those horribke horrible things they say. Despicable fools bent on obsessively shaping me into fitting their explicit fantasies. The delusional fucks all.”

Louis’s had his fair share of breakdowns but it’s never been like this. No. Never like this. He’s actually crying. And Louis never cries. Never. Even when they almost didn’t make it out of boot camp. Even when they were eliminated from the X Factor finals. Even when they got into a near fatal accident a couple months ago and Louis's got this huge glass shard plunged into the side of his arm and the right sleeve of his plain white tee shirt was soaked in blood.

Even during Red Nose Day when the spotlight was solely on Harry(he always did feel guilty being the only one at the receiving end of all that attention) and nobody paid any mind to how Louis dyed his hair red for charity. Even now in fact, because his eyes will well up but he’ll turn around and tilt his head up or keep it down or look away but he’ll never let anyone see the tears fall. And if nobody is there to hear the sound of falling branches in the forest, who's to say it actually occurred?

Because he’s Louis fucking Tomlinson for fuck's sake. Britain’s Ray of Sunshine and wit and the very embodiment of sass and epic comebacks. So no. Louis William Tomlinson had shed no tears. Hell will freeze over before that happens. Anyone who claims otherwise are either lying, blind, on acid or under influence and can't for the life of them think straight.

But hearing his long and unceasing array of explosive pent up frustrations after the exhausting schedule they had in addition to dealing with screaming fans and _this_ bloody migraine is like having a bloody raccoon suddenly jump out onto the road of an M6 motorway in the middle of his driving at night when his mind is half put to sleep. Road kill.

His heart is a tragic road kill. It doesn't wilt slowly like flowers; it rots ungracefully in his ribcage like carcass. People keep saying Harry’s a natural born charmer who seems like he's always in his element but the truth is, Harry is just an awkward turtle. He’s very bad at handling negativity when it comes to people close to him. Anger is toxic. So is frustration. Bad vibes, contagious.

And this…… this has to be one of the most prominent, most uncomfortable moments in the history of his short life thus far. He's cracking his brain thinking of the right things to say to Louis to appease him but his mind is drawing a blank and never has he in the past five years, found it hard to talk to Louis but there's always a first to everything.

So the silence grows louder in his head. He looks at Louis tight-lipped in a polite grimace and stands up to gather the wound up creature in his arms. All this while his mind runs a whirlpool of thoughts that are just too much and all too important, he can’t even focus on one long enough to make himself feel less confused about his whole being.

But therm one thing he’s very sure of is that right now.. in Louis’s arms..  
he never thought he would feel this way.

In Louis arms..

he..  
feels..  
..like shit.

 

And maybe after a while Harry would come to realize that that was the night his eyes started to glaze over but by then he wouldn’t really give much of a shit. Because all things that have beginnings will have that inevitable end. You can resist it.. or you can welcome it.

And so the following days are spent with Harry putting an extra amount of effort to keep a distance between him and Louis when in public view; keep the bodily contact to a minimum; to stop the –what has become automatic- looks he sends Louis’ way; stop that itch to reach out for his best mate.

He genuinely doesn’t want to encourage more hate towards their handlers; the very people who have put in so much effort to get them to where they are. He doesn’t want Louis to have to defend Jay or Eleanor or Lottie or anyone else for that matter. Because Louis shouldn’t have to in the first place.

He doesn’t want to be the one to cause the band to lose their playful and light-hearted aura. They're supposedly the most down-to-earth Boy Band of their generation. The band of happy, carefree and silly lads who fools around often as they are dragged the flow of currents in life. It's truly mental having this dramatic live change happen to five ordinary young fools in such a short amount of time. And it’s brilliant is what it is. A blessing; having made four best mates who are just as good as blood brothers if not better.

The boys are like pillars to each other; supporting and backing the others up. They laugh with him, cry with him, and go through everything with him because they are right there where he is. They see what he's seeing and witnessing the same unbelievable dream unfold. All this whilst practically living out of each others' suitcases.

And that's.. that's something that he holds on to you know? When he’s at his all time low. To remind himself that he isn’t alone in all of this. So he’ll be damned if he lets this destroy the strong and comfortable camaraderie they have cultivated amongst themselves.

But then Harry is someone who observes. He may come off as this random, wacky and passive person to others but he’s human too. Definitely not unfazed to it all but he’s learnt a lot during their juvenile days. The negative content he read when he screws up a performance; rumours of him " _slutting it up_ " to older women. Ge never wants to feel that way again. To search for the negativity when he doesn’t have to and to continuously beat himself up over it.

He’s learnt a lot and he’s come very far but in truth -though he’ll never discuss it with anyone- when it comes to the people he cares about, he'd always bear this guilt for anything and everything that he thinks is in any remote way his fault. No matter how small a part he plays in the screw up. Everyone sees it; the distance and the stale air that settles upon them all. But no one says anything. They know better than to stick their noses in places they don’t belong.

They see it all. But then again they don’t. Because they’re oblivious to the things that go on behind the curtains. The things that go on in a person’s head, behind his smile and goes unspoken; salted on the tongue, trapped behind the lips. So they don’t say anything. Mostly because they don’t know anything. And maybe one day they’ll wish they did.

Everyone is hurting. But mostly Louis and maybe more so, Harry. Because the Larry Stylinson conspiracy flame is growing strong no matter the soil of effort and liquid denial thrown in to clear up and counter the burning rumours. You can’t change a person’s mind if they don’t want to change it for themselves.

Or else there won’t be war. There won’t be racism. Or oppression or child slavery or kidnappings. There won't be killing. Won't be rape, won't violence and all the evils of this world.

It takes two hands to clap and if you tell one person that the Earth is round when he sees it flat, he won’t believe you unless he came wanting the truth or to be reasoned with. Debate all you want but the willingness of an open heart, a sound mind, a good brain and an eye that doesn’t only see but understand is vital for receiving epiphanies of consequence.

 

[Feb 2012]  
Harry moves out.

 

As time goes by, Louis gets more and more pissed off at the world in general. He keeps it all tucked beneath his smile all crinkly and happy looking; pushing it all to the back of his head and trying desperately to enjoy life as it is. That is, until someone on twitter goes too far and he snaps. Again.

 

[Sep 2012]  
Louis Tomlinson @Louis_Tomlinson 1m  
@skyleridk Hows this , Larry is the biggest load of bullshit I've ever heard. I'm happy why can't you accept that.

 

Each time he snaps, Harry's guilt grows heavier. Molten led that hardens where he slips further and further into what feels like a bottomless pit of self-blame for making Louis this way. Because if it wasn’t for his existence, Louis would never have to feel so constricted all the time.

But he keeps it all inside, not saying a thing because he doesn’t want a repeat of the past. He mingles a bit more with the other boys to try and keep all the homosexual theories at bay. No matter how much their interactions have died down in public view, it doesn’t change the fact that there will always be a steadily growing number of firm believers.

Louis says it’s starting to feel like a cult; the Larry shippers. They’d be proud if they were actually gay, he says. But this is fucked up and they're starting to do this painfully awkward dance around each other and everything's becoming rather morose as a result that it's putting a strain on their –what used to be- extraordinary friendship. The once enviably carefree relationship without thought for boundaries have caved in and made way for walls and walls.

 

The thing is.. Harry thinks it’s funny.

What is? The irony.. probably.

Maybe if denial won’t work, he could replace it with something else. A distraction? A scapegoat? Bait? Not a beard no. He goes to Niall in hopes that maybe the attention would turn this way instead. Because Niall is Niall and he’s sure not Louis. Far from. He wouldn’t mind rumors; doesn’t have a girlfriend to make him liable and he’ll never react in the way Louis would.

 

Besides, the fans would never hurt the free-spirited, jovial and bubbly Niall. And maybe he knows that Harry and Niall would never surpass Harry and Louis so he’s not worried about Niall being pulled down with them too. But it doesn’t work. Not that he had much faith that it would. Not that he has much faith left for anything at all. The fans are persistent. For every step forward, he falls two steps back.

  
“Why doesn’t Harry deny it then? I'll stop as soon as Harry says something. Until then, I'll always be a Larry Shipper."

"Larry Stylinson is **real** and if you guys can’t see that then you’re blind. How can you deny it? It's so obvious!"  
  
"The way Harry  _looks_ at Louis. ASFDKFL OTP!"  
  
"People who think Narry is real aure are fucking stupid."  
  
"I don't sail this ship, I mother fucking cruise it and it will never sink."  
  
"Protest."  
  
"#FreeLarry #Managementletlarrycomeout"  
  
"I’ll always support them no matter what.”

Harry's feeling like he’s seven thousand leagues deep beneath water. His lungs are filling up and he can’t breathe. Limbs heavy, head afloat; where the hell did it all go wrong? At which point exactly? Because he tried. Believe him when he says he tried. Tried so fucking hard.

Be that as it may some of the fans remain forever unrelenting and with that, comes the moment he’s been dreading for for so long but always knew would come. And from that one person too. Give him a knife. Let his ears bleed. What did Van Gogh use? Maybe he can be the modern Mozart. Maybe he can sing without the ability to hear.

“Can’t you just say it? All they need is that 'Arreh. If you’d just tweet _I'm straight as a bamboo pole_ or whatever, they’d believe you and all this bullshit would stop.”

Straight huh? Harry just looks at Louis but says nothing. And that was that.

 

Harry steps it up a notch. Moves on to Zayn now. It’s like his new go-to self-motivating motto. Almost a mantra.

‘ _Keep close to the boys. Stay away from Louis._ ’  
‘ _Keep close to the boys. Stay away from Louis._ ’  
‘ _Keep close to the boys. Stay away from Louis._ ’

  
But like everything else, it never works. It’s crazy how clouded these people are with blind faith. Should he be proud or flabbergasted? Like they’ve said a million times; if he and Louis were truly in a relationship he thinks this kind of support would be incredibly overwhelming. In a good way.

But they aren’t. And it isn’t. It goes one way or the other and make it or break it, this is definitely overwhelming. But not in a good way. And the scale is too tipped over to one side that he knows one day it’ll fall over.

 

A couple of years has passed and not much has changed. He plasters a smile to his face, Louis gets pissed at the rather looney fans and the other three just try hard to overwrite the heavy atmosphere with sheer slapstick nonsense.

Harry wipes the steam off the mirror. He’s in the bathroom. He spends most of his time in the bathroom these days. The boys let him have his space. They figure it’s how he copes. Probably thinks he just needs a bit of alone time and a long warm bath after a hectic day of paparazzi and fans and schedules and schedules and schedules.

The distance between him and Louis have stretched over to reality. Tension settles down with it's suitcase and decided on it's own to crash it's uninvited ass on their metaphorically shared couch, even when they're away from public view. Probably because their questionable and suspicious relationship remain the hottest topic worldwide and the media are becoming more and more concentrated on this part of the pool.

Gay is the new chic. Did you know? Half the world's population are obsessed with "L.G.B."-ity and other forms of gender queer alike and the other half are.. well obsessed. Difference being their belief system on whether homosexuals have a place in paradise a.k.a. the Garden of Eden.

Harry stares at himself like he wants to be pulled into the mirror. He wonders how the mirror world is like. If maybe his reflection has a better fate. But then again his reflection looks pretty shit. Sunken eye sockets, black rings beneath them, dry chapped lips and pale skin. Is it over yet? When is it going to be over? Harry lets out a shuddering sigh. He's feeling the particularly strong presence of his anxiety shackles today.

There is never a time where they can just be best mates and not have to worry about what other details the fans will extract from a photo of a casual hangout to convert into more foreplay for smut fics. He’s sick of it. So very up and over and done with everything. Sick of the guilt. Sick of his feelings. Sick of the cuckoo fans. Sick of his thoughts.

Part of him thinks ‘They’re the reason why I’m here in the first place. I should be grateful.’

Thinks ‘I was the one who wanted to be here. I have no right to complain. There are people out there who have to worry about bills and putting food on the table and paying the mortgage or facing bankruptcy. Remember the orphans? The disabled, the hungry, the unemployed and homeless people in royally blessed London itself. What about the sick and starving Africans? The caged North Koreans? The frightened Palestinians? Mutated Vietnamese children continuously wronged by Americans due to residual nuclear chemicals from agent orange? Seriously, what fucking right so you even have to be sad at all?’

But the matter at hand is stubbornly developing a voice box that screams mutiny against his solicitude for anything other than having fucked up Louis’ life. Fucked up the band's easy vibes. ’ve gone and messed it all up. And he's messed up. Don’t deserve to be sad. But this shit hurts. Can’t breathe. Don’t deserve to be sad.

But shit- the more he tell myself to stop the more pain comes. Feel like someone went and punctured a hole to his abdominal aorta. ’s stupid. Making everything seem bigger than it actually is. Can’t stop. Head throbbing. Head throbbing. Head throbbing. Why won't it just  **stop**? For the love of God stop, please.

Harry's eyes are red and wet, all puffed up but they're glazed over. He looks at himself in the mirror and sees his face void of expression. Numb. He keeps so much inside. So much overwhelming chest constricting, bone crushing white-hot searing pain to himself that after awhile he does actually feel numb. Intentional or not, he doesn’t know.

        Doesn’t care.

               Doesn’t even know if he prefers the numbness to the pain. Sometimes it scares him.. how much he doesn’t feel. Complete emotional expenditure.

 

One night a couple of weeks later, Harry just stands up and makes his way out of the apartment without a glance back at one inquisitive Louis. Muttering something about getting coffee. Louis doesn’t question it. And maybe one day he’ll wish he did.

‘You know the feeling when you are sitting in a room which is brightly lit and it is dark out and you try to look out the window but all you can see is inky blackness and your own face staring back at you? You smile garishly and so does your reflection. You stab yourself in the throat and so does your reflection and it hurts doubly so, and there are two fountains of blood and two funerals and there are two burnt out galaxies but there is only him in the grave and the reflection of him becomes corporeal and sleeps in his bed and phones his mum and pretends to love the same people that he loves.’

The same one who goes and dresses up for the interviews and laughs with the boys over pizza screaming bloody murder over a match of FIFA '14 on his flat-screen and the live Red Devils football screening that came after and fools around on stage obnoxiously and hugs the fans and goes down the slide with Lux and cross-dresses with Nick and downs pints with Ed and have long catechizing talks with Liam and accompanies Zayn's many cigarette ash adventures on the balcony and scouts au courant food with Niall and considers Louis silently from afar.

 

 

Dreary-eyes sits alone on the high chairs lined up by the counter, hands wrapped around his fresh cup of

  
"Green eye"  
{ Dripped coffee with a triple shot of espresso. Otherwise known as the Triple Death }.

He usually orders the

  
Café Au Lait  
{ French coffee drink that consists of strong or bold coffee (sometimes espresso) mixed with scalded milk in approximately a 1:1 ratio }

  
  
but he's been craving something strong tonight.

 

 

 

The ceramic is hot against his naked palms; but he's used to the heat. The fragrant aroma of freshly baked coffee beans and maple syrup fill his senses; his mind barely registering the sound of those beans hitting against the walls of the roasting chamber. Harry tries to leave his head a bit; lets himself drip into the bitter black of the liquid and the small ring of brown around its perimeter.

Behind the counter, just a few feet away stood the only other person in the shop. A lad who looks about 2 or 3 years older than himself. He seems content, silently busying himself by wiping the area around the coffee roaster. Harry's been here quite a number of times. Usually when the sun is up but still. At least.. enough times that it's decidedly normal for the other lad -Ade; judging by the monogram on his white dress shirt- to set a plate of pie in front of him. _It's the last piece. On the house._

The café has never stayed open this late before. Harry looks up at his Ade as he brings his own cup of tea and takes a seat next to Harry. The coffee roaster's been turned off and Norah Jones' voice resonates through the room with great clarity. They share a comfortable silence, Ade's eyes fleeting about the vintage black and white photographs hung on the walls while sipping his tea; Harry occupying himself by studying the swirls of steam as they dance in circles on the surface of his reflection.

“Do you believe in God?”

Ade blinks; not expecting that sudden(not to mention big) question.

“Well.. I don’t know if I believe in human beings’ idea of god but I believe in a Supreme Lord with a capital letter at the start of His name if that’s what you mean?”

Harry nods mechanically.

“Then.. do you think it’s wrong to be attracted to someone of the same sex?”

“I don’t know.. I think it’s subjective really. I’ve always contradicted myself on these kind of things. On sexuality and transgender ideologies. I think The Almighty Big Guy up there is always fair and I think he knows everything. From every atomic particle and movements of dried autumn leaves to the map of our galaxies and the whole universe.

"I.M.O., He must know everything physical, spiritual, metaphorical and theoretical. He has to for me to believe in him. I can’t ever see a human being as a god. I believe God has to be perfection. He knows everything in our minds and our hearts. Every thought that runs through our heads and the blood that pumps through our veins.  
   
"I believe that he’s closer to us than our jugular vein. And he knows more than anyone of our struggles and the stories of us and everything that was, everything that is, everything that will be and whatever in between. The universe can’t have made itself.

"Because if you asked me how this iPhone is made and I told you a mini hurricane or a tiny explosion assembled the scrap metal into apple products you’d think I’m taking the piss. But some people can’t help how they feel you know? You don’t ask to be how you are. But I think the world’s a test to see how strong you can be.  
  
"God doesn’t give you these obstacles unless he knows you can handle it. But at the same time, I believe that God made men.. and He made women. We were built a certain way. You can’t push a square peg through a round hole in kindergarten so you probably shouldn’t try. But that doesn’t mean you’d stop wanting to try.”

Harry’s quiet as he digests the words in his head.

“You’re really in love him aren’t you?”

His eyes widened in what would seem like a comical way had it not been for the tense and almost palpable atmosphere. Not right now. Not with the solemn tone of the topic of discussion. Not when Harry's sitting there at a café letting a stranger who’s closing shop know more about his life from the mere two questions he asked as compared to everyone else who’s heard him answer an infinite more.

 

Harry wraps his scarf around his neck and lets himself out into the piercing cold wind. He's still not wearing gloves. But he hates the cold. It doesn't make sense, but.

There's a jingle behind him, the door of the café hitting the tiny brass bell for the second time in minutes.  
  
"Hey Harry? See you.. okay?"

Harry's eyebrows rose for a minute, spins his head around to study his _(just barely)......._ acquaintance. before sending the lad an almost smile. Yeah.. maybe. Let's hope. With only a nod at the lad's wishing him luck and the tiny wave he sends with a flick of his wrist; he fishes out his phone and begins his journey home.

Harry tweets something he's been wanting to let out, hours before on the walk to the café. He tweets it on an account he’s made to follow the people he can’t or shouldn’t and tweet the things he wants to say but can never say with his reputation on the line. He doesn’t have that many followers there because no one cares much for the words of the anonymous; of the not famous.

Annyms @1Vessel23 4m  
I forget to live in the real world sometimes. I remember patches of my encounters and am oblivious to the rest.

Annyms @1Vessel23 4m  
Like a short-sighted person, I don’t see past my bubble. You could stand straight in front of my face and I will probably not remember your features..

Annyms @1Vessel23 3m  
..or your existence.. or you having ever been there in the first place.

Annyms @1Vessel23 3m  
I pay attention to trees more than human beings when I’m on the go.

Annyms @1Vessel23 2m  
If I could call it anything, I’d call it selective living. Plausible deniability of the insignificance of the unknown and unneeded to be known.

He then locks his phone and stuffs it in his coat pocket. These tweets join a chain of others ranging from the discoveries he made about how his brain works to the observations of the world around him and the feelings he so desperately wants to free but can’t. Things he can’t. So if he can’t do that.. nobody can stop him from making a private twitter account to use as an outlet right?

So he ponders about The Lord of the universe and he wonders about the depth of the galaxies and whether everything isn’t so superficial all the way home. He reaches the front door at 4 am.

Louis is awake. At 4am. He’s been waiting up. Why has he been waiting up? Anxiety weighs on his stomach like an anvil. Metaphorical thought; almost literal feeling.

“Hey Haz.. you’ve been out long.”

“Yeah. Needed to clear my head for a bit. Get some air.”

Louis nods slowly before tilting his head and looking at Harry like he’s contemplating on whether or not he should tell Harry something.

“I’m……… getting engaged. To Eleanor.”

_Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. Shit. Fuck. NO. He can't. I can't- I’m not. I can’t be. And he- no._

“Congratulations.”

“…………………”

“…………………”

“Aren’t you going to ask me about the dates?”

“..No.”

And with that Harry walks past Louis right into his bedroom, closes the door softly and heads straight for the bathroom, turning the shower on. Whatever epiphany or resolve he'd grasped or almost did, gone. Head drawing to a blank, he sits there in the tub fully clothed; so used to the feeling of the cold ceramic against his skin and the freezing water drizzling onto his head, matting strands of hair that falls over his face.

He stays there till the sun rises and drips through the small window in the wall on his right; soaking wet, fingers pruned, body shivering, eyelashes fluttering, eyes glazed. He thinks about nothing.  
  
He stopped the running water just a bit over an hour ago. The water that ripples around him, a pale plasma orange colour.

Louis leaves him alone in his room for the day. Figures he needs time to himself because he’s been kind of out of it lately. Reckons he needs the alone time. The space. Give him space. Give him time. Give him space. Give him time. He’ll go talk to him tonight. They don’t have a schedule for the rest of the week. And one day maybe he’ll come to regret waiting. Along with the list of long regrets that will engulf his very soul. And that one day may actually be right around the corner.

 

[ Climax theme ]  
Postmodern Jukebox ft. Haley Reinhart's Creep

 

 

The thing is.. Harry thinks it’s funny.

What is? The irony of it all.

How it feels like there isn’t a day in over 3 years that goes by without Louis getting worked up over the rumors. And in each and every one of those days, Harry’s so worried about taking care of Louis’ sanity that he forgets to take care of his own. And yes.. maybe Louis is straight. Maybe Louis does love Eleanor. Maybe Louis isn’t really in love with Harry.

But he’s so blind to what’s right under his nose. In those 5 years of them being together in a band, never did he ask how Harry felt about that. About it all. And the Irony is that they keep thinking Louis is 98% gay and Harry is bi. But really Louis is just Louis and Harry hates labels but he falls in love with _people_. And he may also suffer a severe case of anxiety and he self harms and hasn’t worn anything short-sleeved in 2 and a half years. He’s lost his appetite 2 years ago and his meals have been pretty irregular; his brain, always on overdrive and screaming a continuous chain of static ‘shut up shut up shut up’s for the past year and a quarter only to get louder and louder with each passing day.   
  
You know.. Louis never did have that talk with Harry that night. He knocked on the door but Harry retreated back to the bathroom. It’s become his safe haven. The tiny drip drops of water from the tap, a rhythmic comfort that helps pace his own beating heart. Runs.. jogs.. skips.. walks.. stop.

 

He left the tub at 8.47am, tweeted a couple of things at 3pm, lied in his bed staring at the ceiling with his still damp clothes for hours, tweeted something else at 20:14 before Louis’ knock and his retreat to the tub. This time the water was an opaque crimson, almost black. And the water doesn’t ripple. Louis and Zayn managed to break the door down at 22:33. They rushed past the wooden shards and the tiny pieces of wood still attached to the hinges, into Harry’s quiet bedroom. The rest of the boys in tow. Louis’ mind is sort of in a trance. His eyes are glazed but his heart is pumping furiously with this overwhelming adrenaline and great level of panic. They slide open Harry’s bathroom door and are met with a wonderful, wonderful sight.

Niall thinks he’s going to puke. Liam’s frantically calling out Harry’s name and rushing over to get his body out of the tub. Zayn’s too shocked to do anything. He’s collapsed against the side of the bathroom. Can't feel his legs. Niall can’t see past his tears but he can hear Louis’ hysterical screaming over his own loud whimpers and Liam’s prevailing screams. Harry’s naked in the pool of thick liquid.

Liam’s calling Harry to wake up. Please wake up! Please! Jesus Christ! Oh my God. Wake up Harry! shaking his body full of cuts of different ages all over before cradling the limp and pliant vessel close to his chest, rocking back and forth, resting his chin on Harry’s soaked curls, his cold face snug against his neck, pale blue lips against his Adam’s apple. That’s what’s frightening about this scene. Niall can’t see a spot in Harry’s body that’s clean of lines enough for him to draw an aeroplane with a sharpie. Maybe if he drew really, really tiny ones. It might smudge though. And to think they never had a clue. Harry’s body a mess of pink and red and brown and white and he looks pretty beautiful. His serene face emerging from that beautiful mess of colors.

It takes Niall 5 minutes for his brain to register that Louis isn’t just screaming. That his high-pitched screeches from where he’s fallen to the side of the bath tub are actually words.

"Open your eyes Haz!”  
“Harry this isn't funny!”  
“Oh my god it's my fault isn't it?”  
"It’s all my fault!”  
“Comebackcomebackcomebackcomeback"  
“Please come back Harry!”  
“I can’t live without you!”  
“You can't **do this to me**!”  
“I'm so sorry!”  
“Oh my God I'm so sorry Harry!”  
“Haz wake up!”  
“Please wake up!”

He doesn’t know when Louis’ made his way over but the next thing he knows, Liam’s outside the bathroom dialing 999 and Louis has his head buried in Harry’s chest. The younger boy’s head lolling to the side. They had to pry Louis away from the violent shaking he resorted to after turning more and more frantic. But there’s no way they can save him. He’s probably been dead for a while now.

 

 

Harry Styles @Harry_Styles 8h  
My mind is so numb it scares me sometimes. :/

Harry Styles @Harry_Styles 3h  
Larry Stylinson isn’t real. It's unrequited love on my part. :( Louis really is straight so stop bothering him.

Harry Styles @Harry_Styles 3h  
Eleanor's the love of his life. They're getting engaged!! Congraaaaaaaatss .x


	2. Post-mortem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack:
> 
> Young the Giant - Islands  
> Bon Iver - Holocene  
> Rachael Yamagata - Quiet

Death isn't necessarily a sad thing. And each dearly departed doesn't end with tragedy. Maybe the boy is up there somewhere.. maybe he has found relief. As his last shuddering breath escape his lips, he was finally able to breathe.  
  
Ironic isn't it?

A drought has hit. His lungs a shrivelled dessert of sand. His cheekbones concaved, sunken into valleys now dried up. He no longer cries. He is no longer able to. It's like his lacrimal glands have retired. So has his voice box. And so has his heart. He doesn't think. He doesn't feel. He doesn't do anything. Living in the abysmal depths of his unlit room, no light greets him. When he wakes, he is like a holographic imitation of his former self. When he sleeps, it's a smooth transition into nothing. In a state of emotional comatose, the silver band never made it to her finger.  
  
  
Catatonic depression:

  * Extreme negativism
  * Hypokinesis: immobility or being unable to move
  * Selective mutism: the patient is unable to speak due to extreme anxiety
  * Unusual movements
  * Posturing: imitating another person's speech (echolalia) or movements (echopraxia)
  * Mania: immobility alternating with agitation           
  * Intense emotional pain triggered by normal physical movements
  * Refusal to eat or drink



  
They try to break him out of that trance the other boy has on him, but it's like he's no longer there. Just an apparition. Words escape his ears and his throat, like blocked caverns. Nothing could have lifted the boulders free. Louis is emitted to a private psychiatric ward. The band disbanded. The others worried and left to fend for themselves and push into a future where they feel that they can never recover from this plague that has stabbed them all and break into real happiness.

  
His mother feeds him, clothes him, bathes him but his actions are minimal and it's frightening for someone who held your hand from when you first learnt to sit, cheered you on from when you first learnt to crawl and called out to you when you took your first step.. for someone who first heard your mumbled speech gradually morph into coherent and logical clarity.. to see you fall off a cliff into an abyss with seemingly no end. So many caretakers and yet she refuses to handover her rounds to them. She's turning more desperate and more hell-bent on fixing him she begins to neglect the girls. Strike five.  
  
  
It doesn't take that much longer for his skin to shrink and wrap around his ribs. He pukes out as much as he takes in. Nowadays it's practically dry heaving seeing as he's unable to keep anything in. The light from the window seems too bright for his irises that they often find him in the corner beneath the window. That's where he stays day in and day out until the day his body is spent and his joints grow weak. No longer able to walk, he lays in bed with dull purplish lips faced away from the blinding light that hurts his pupils. He can feel it coming when his heartbeat ebbs and wanes drastically and almost as unpredictably as middle ocean storms before it finally settles, his lungs they burn, his stomach they knot so tight but he welcomes the pain. As one final tear finally drip over his desiccated pupils, his soul leaves through his crescent shaped eyes.

 

  
And it'll be just as quiet when I leave  
As it was when I first got here  
I don't expect anything  
 I don't expect anything

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going to work on this in a very experimental way.  
> Every work should be singularly withstanding.  
> You can read whichever one first.  
> I procrastinate a lot. So..


End file.
